HOW I NO LONGER BELIEVE IN PIOUS WOMEN

I am certain something tawdry, a craving for stiletto-heeled patent leather, perfume of tiger lilies and tobacco, swigs from the whiskey bottle, leaving rings of whore-red lipstick, evidence of the carnal slithers beneath pink skin. I am certain their forked tongues press hard against their palates so that strings of profanity remain caged, a virgin’s thighs shut tight. I am certain that rough neighborhoods’ wafting aromas, sticky nightclubs of glittery G-stringed putas, of gold-toothed criminals with teardrop tattoos make their hearts flutter, curl their hands into manicured talons, move their tongues to lick shiny bicuspids. All the while, their lips pursed in feigned disdain. I do not believe in pious women, but the red imprints of corset, pale lace, and garter upon breathing, hot flesh.

 

Oh, but how I have strayed. From my story, how I have strayed.